Poems About Sports
|

Amazing Sports Poems for Sports Enthusiast in 2020

Amazing Sports Poems for Sports Enthusiast in 2020.

Sports Poems: Have fun reading these amazing sports poems and feel free to share them with your family and friends. Since you are a sports enthusiast, I’m sure you will find a sports-related verse here that you will be able to relate to.

Amazing Sports Poems for Sports Enthusiast in 2020

All of these sports poems have been specially written by the poets for this feature, and I thank them hugely. Now let’s take the poems out from the box, hope you will enjoy the following.

1. Goal

One flash and no looking back, that
moment, soundless,
through the plate-glass frontage
of the big-screen (Catch The Big Game

BIGGER!) bar: some

goal! has lifted them clean off their bar stools
and out of themselves,
their mouths wide, like one full-on
gust of wind; there may be words
and, somewhere, losers

(in some mirror-image bar) but here,
now, he’s untouchable –
one lad in the dozen, a tad doughy
where his cheap kit top rides up, but hey,
a good half-metre skyward

as if hoisted by his high-flung fists –
Ye-e-es! – launched
like a toddler from a rough grip
under armpits, as if gravity had shrugged
and dad’s glasspaper grin

could be always below, great laughter
like God’s, without words
in any language, without rights or wrongs
or sides to fall back into. Why else
can we dream of flying,

unless we were made for this?

By Philip Gross

2. Sports

Sports inspire us,
to compete.
Winning over losing,
is much more sweet.

We do it because,
we love the game.
Life without sports,
would not be the same.

Plenty of water,
we must constantly drink.
As we push our bodies,
to their very brink.

Sports bring out,
our inner drive,
To make the play,
we often dive.

We sacrifice everything,
for our team,
because a championship,
is our only dream.

By tree.card

3. Great North

Although we may have bolted from that sad cliff
of our imminent decline, we are not Paula Radcliffe.

And though we may have startled
at the starting pistol,

with its jolt
of explosive (fired by Sting), Usain Bolt

we are not,
by a long shot.

And even though we purchased the slim new book he
called What I Talk About When I Talk About Running, we are not Haruki

Murakami,
most definitely
not. Wired to our iPods,
we are your average, middle-aged bipeds:

half-trained, stiff-hinged, pegging up the course,
as likely overtaken by a pantomime horse

as a Lady Gaga . . . In the name of God!
In the name of a small but worthy charity, we plod

on, to the finish and vitality,
fleeing those intimations of mortality.

By Colette Bryce

4. I Want To Play

Lisa and Dennis,
went to the park,
Where they met,
Jenny and Mark.

Lisa wanted to play,
a fun sport like tennis.
We have no racquets,
explained frowning Dennis.

How about baseball?
Jenny proposed,
We have no gloves,
Mark shyly exposed.

Dennis yelled,
Let’s play basketball instead.
We don’t have a net,
Lisa laughed as she said.

Mark asked them,
can we play soccer?
Jenny said,
forgot the ball in my locker.

So they all stood there,
thinking which sport to play,
It was certainly,
a beautiful day.

Then they noticed,
Other kids begin to run,
It looked like tag,
Not a sport but still fun.

By tree.cards

5. Ollamaloni (Aztec: Rubber Ball Game)

I send you this report
And risk your disbelief;
In the stone stadium
Of their temple of sacrifice
Teams of very nearly naked men,
Back to back, waited
Until the crowd was silenced
As at the Gloria of our Church
When the Holy Spirit is invoked.
What happened next defies
All reason; I saw it spring from Nothing
High across the sky, into the sun;
At first I thought it was a wingless bird
Spinning and vaulting in joy
Like our swallows; but it fell to earth,
Kissed the stone, and then leaped up again –
The men gave chase, but the creature
Tricked them, gathering speed
With every bound, rising ever higher –
The congregation roared, and I confess
Tears poured down my face –
I know not why; only my ardent faith
Prevented me from stripping off
My black soutane, and joining in the fray.
In the spirit of enquiry I desired
To hold the object of the game.
They gave it to me. I have it now
In the palm of my hand.
It is a small, dark ball, warm
As an egg, or a fallen star,
And decorated with skulls;
It is heavy as a stone, and yet
What spirit moves it? Whose god
Created such a wonder
That leaps for joy? And why
Does my body tremble with delight
To play the game again?
Pray for me, now –
For I find I cannot let it go.

By Nick Drake

6. The Cure

He was skating,
exceptionally fast,
The game was ending,
a few seconds would last.

Preparing for the shot,
he fell as he slipped,
Hitting the ice,
his front teeth got chipped.

It looked like he just,
forgot how to skate.
But how is this possible?
just turned twenty-eight.

He looked like a penguin,
wearing black and white,
Picked up the puck,
and began to bite.

His teammates realized,
he forgot to take his pills,
Which explained his madness,
and his lack of skills.

The doctor came out,
and realized for sure.
That a Stanley Cup,
is the only cure.

By tree.cards

7. Pheidippedes’ Daughter (for Catrin)

Long silver girl who slipped easy
and early from the womb’s waters,
whose child-breath was a bird in a cage,
the inhaler in her fist her amulet,

grew tall, beautiful, caught her breath,
outran the hound, the hare, the myth,
the otter, salmon, swallow, hawk,
the river, the road, the track.

She texts again – this time Santiago.
She’s counting seven cities underfoot,
running the bloodlines of language, lineage,
for Ceridwen’s drop of gold, an ear of corn,

to leave the Battle of Marathon and run
through pain and joy with news to the gates of a city,
to arrive at the finishing line, and say,
“Nenikékamen – We have won.”

By Gillian Clarke

8. Kata

A dance between movement and space,
between image and imperative.
Each step, an arrival
of the familiar within the unknown.
The gravity of form
and the mechanism of each gesture
as profound and dissolved
as the body’s memory of a stranger
who said nothing but in passing
met with you in stillness:
wanting to go no faster than this.

By Lavinia Greenlaw

9. Football

Football is a sport,
for those who are tough.
It’s not easy,
but rather quite rough.

It offers,
it’s share of bruises and pain,
When you get hit,
it can feel like a train.

Protecting each other,
with the art of the block.
In the huddle,
keep your eyes on the clock.

Coaches yell out,
intricate plays,
To gain hard earned yards,
there’s so many ways.

It’s all about the endzone,
how far and how near,
The closer you get,
your opponents gain fear.

Football revolves,
around the whole team,
A win is the sole purpose,
and ultimate dream.

By tree.cards

10. Great Sporting Moments, Vol LV

A brace of goals that I was meant to score,
Aged ten – how else can I explain them? Taken on the run
Or on the turn, from outside the eighteen-yard box.

The last-minute try that means we have won –
My first game for the big school’s first fifteen – except
The full-time whistle has already gone. (I blunder on

Through their bewildered backs . . .) The catch
I take so deep in the outfield it almost knocks me
Backwards over the boundary. Last man out. End of match.

I can still see myself, skinny legs in baggy khaki shorts,
Forehand-drive my way through the singles draw
Against the white-clad ones on the tennis-club courts

And hurtle towards the crossbar that day I leapt
Into the record-book . . . How reliable these moments are
That I replay endlessly! But all the same it shocks me,

To think that I was once that little star,
So lean and taut and primed – the boy who mocks me;
How brief the main event, through which I must have slept.

By Alan Jenkins

11. Puck of Glory

The puck is dropped,
as play begins.
Each team vying,
for hard-earned wins.

Captains and sticks,
synchronously clash,
The puck comes loose,
hordes pursue with dash.

Well positioned defensemen,
takes control,
To defend and assist,
his duty and goal.

A crisp pass takes the puck,
to the left side,
Where two giants,
suddenly collide.

For a split moment,
there’s an eternal mess.
Possessions rotate,
like in a game of chess.

The puck of glory,
comes loose again,
A glimmer of hope,
there’s an open lane.

Captain gains control,
with pure speed and finesse,
Opponents watching,
share the same stress.

Four seconds to go,
he just lets it fly,
Game seven, overtime,
It’s glory or die.

The puck of glory passes,
the goalie of grief,
The Captain becomes
the hero and thief.

By tree.cards

12. The Roller in the Woods

Who would imagine a cricket ground
Had ever existed here,
Folded into a farm on the downland pasture,
Lapping the edge of the oakwood
And the buttercup-quilted rides?
For the Toll is returned to plough
After a century of combat,
Sown to a sea of blue-green waves
Beneath which it lies drowned.
And now,
Stick nor stone of the old pavilion,
Hook nor slat of the scoreboard left:
Never an echo of tumbling children,
Tattle of Edwardians,
Knocking their pipes out on the rough deal benches.

Foaming hawthorn and rhododendron
Have colonised the field-edge, spreading
Through copper beech and flowering chestnut
And adventitious saplings.
Where
Is the camaraderie
Of the side I played for so often here:

Their thunderous blows and heroical overs,
The days that flowed with sun and wind:
Stalemates in dismal drizzle,
And the finger of death uplifted in the dusk?

Where,
I might ask,
Are Nobby and Dave and the Colonel and Phil,
The two Pauls and the one and only
Moggy Worsfold and Arthur Spark?
I have failed to raise them
By staring out at the level meadow
As if I were Cadmus who had sown
The dragon’s teeth and awaited
His armed men springing from the earth.

But I did untangle my way
Through the canopied darkness of what had been
The boundary. Among the laurel bushes
And snagging goose-grass and rabbit holes,
I found what I’d forgotten, hidden
Under a wide oak. For this

Was what they could not lightly move
In the rhythm of abandonment:
Here was the deep ground-bass and the solemn
Measure of constancy, foundry-born,
That had lasted so long.
And I laid
My arms across the surface, feeling
Under the rust and dust and pollen,
The summers that never seemed to move
And all the years gone by to the creak of iron.

By Kit Wright

I hope you enjoyed reading these amazing sports poems. Kindly share this with your friends for their own reading pleasure.

Daily Time Poems.

Similar Posts

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published.